Owain Glyn

My Son, My Son - Poem by Owain Glyn

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I sit here in the fading lightAlone.I'm still, although my weakened, wasted frameOccasionally dances with the cold.I'm old now, and live with just my thoughtsOf youWhere are you now? Does your body feed and nourishMany trees and flowers? Do noisy bees disturb your sleep?

I remember chubby fingersGrasping thumbsTo help you first perambulateWith chuckled glee that set you freeTo mingle with your destiny.I'm old now, and live with just my thoughtsOf you.Did they feed you well, my son? Or did they just give you a gunAnd tell you God was on your side?

That hollow day on which they came to sayHow bravely you had diedI fed them tea, and choked on sympathyI cried.I'm old now, and live with just my thoughtsOf you.Did your bowels flood at sight of blood? which soon you recognized as yours.Will history reward your sacrifice? No! it will soon forget, and seek new fools!

I'm old now; I wish I could remember you more clearly. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _